"I never thought about it that way," he said, licking his fingers clean. "But it makes sense. Nothing beautiful comes without cost."
"Exactly." The word hung between us, a bridge. "The most profound art demands the artist surrender something irreplaceable. The Renaissance masters understood this when creating pigments that contained their very breath, ground into the paint as they labored. Just as Christ gave his body so others might transcend, the greatest artists follow this sacred tradition. The body becomes the site of transformation, the chrysalis from which beauty emerges."
My mind drifted to a vision of Micah and me together in my workshop, bent over a living canvas. Not merely creating art but becoming it ourselves, our hands stained with the same pigments. The image brought unexpected pleasure—a composition I hadn't initially sketched but now seemed essential to the final work.
After our meal, I extended my hand to him. "There's something I want to show you."
His breathing quickened as I led him toward the locked door that had captured his imagination all evening. I retrieved its key, watching his eyes widen as the metal slid into the lock.
"Few people ever see this space," I told him as the door swung open. "This is where my true work begins."
The stairway descended into darkness until light flooded my private workshop. Unlike the teaching studio upstairs, this space revealed my actual methods without artifice.
Tools hung on the walls in perfect arrangements, their forms as carefully composed as a still life. A refrigeration unit hummed softly, its glass door revealing specimens organized by color and opacity rather than clinical categories. Steel tables gleamed under lighting designed to reveal true colors and textures. No false warmth or flattering shadows, just honest illumination.
I watched Micah's reaction as he absorbed the room. His breathing quickened, his eyes darkening as though shadowed by an unseen brush, a fine sheen of sweat appearing at his temples.
"What are these?" he asked, approaching a series of glass containers, his voice hushed as if we'd entered a cathedral.
"Materials," I explained, watching his reflection in the glass. "From those who contributed to artistic transformation."
He turned to me, eyes wide, lips parted. "People volunteered their bodies for your art?"
"In a sense." I opened a cabinet containing finished pigments, each labeled with date and source. "Commercial pigments lack the luminosity you've noticed in my work. Only organic materials carry the memory of life."
"That's why they seem to glow from within," he murmured, leaning closer to a jar of pearlescent powder rendered from bone. "Like they remember being alive."
"Exactly. No synthetic medium can capture that quality."
"How do you find them?" he asked suddenly. "Your contributors."
The question pleased me. It wasn't just that he would ask, but that he would do so without flinching. Another sign of his evolution.
"That's a conversation for another time. When you're ready, I'll show you every aspect of the process. The selection of subjects is as much art as their transformation."
“You choose them yourself.”
“An artist must take responsibility for his art,” I replied.
Micah picked up a glass jar and turned it over in his hand. "You've taught me to use these materials, but I haven't truly contributed to them." He looked up. "If I'm serious about this path, shouldn't I contribute too?"
"What did you have in mind?" I kept my expression neutral, curious but not leading.
Micah hesitated before replacing the jar. "Something of myself. Something... permanent."
"Blood, perhaps?" I suggested. "Many artists have incorporated their blood into their work."
"No." His voice grew firmer. "I’ve already used my own blood in a painting. I need something more…significant. You spoke of sacrifice. Real sacrifice. Like you.”
"That was my choice," I reminded him. "Made after considerable thought."
"I've given it considerable thought," he insisted, turning to face me. "For years. My whole life I've been looking for something real. This is it. Please, Ezra. I need to do this. I need…" He looked down at his hand, tracing his fingers over the back of his palm. "The first joint of my little finger. It's least used for painting but would leave a permanent mark of my commitment."
I studied him, weighing his words. "Are you certain? "
"I'm certain." His gaze never wavered from mine. "It’s important."
I moved to the cabinet, retrieving a case of surgical tools. I arranged them on the steel table. Scalpels of various shapes. Bone saws. Forceps. Clamps.
